


Sorrow Shared

by sunstarunicorn



Series: Magical Flashpoint Side Stories [29]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: As Spike and his mother grieve their loss, the rest of the family does not stand idle.  In the hours and days that follow, Team One steps into the gap, proving, once again, that there really is no place they’d rather be.
Relationships: Ed Lane/Sophie Lane, Kevin "Wordy" Wordsworth/Shelley Wordsworth
Series: Magical Flashpoint Side Stories [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/576850
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Death in the Family

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the Magical Flashpoint Side Story series. It follows "Start Again" as well as 04x07 Shockwave and comes before "Just Another Birthday".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

Gone. His Papá was gone. One moment he’d been breathing and the next… Nothing.

Spike tightened his grip on his Papá’s hand, silently pleading, begging for more time. For one more breath, one more conversation, one more _anything_. His mother’s wail broke the spell. “Dominic,” she cried, the plaintive _loneliness_ in that plea a stab straight to Spike’s heart. He released his father’s hand, moving to his Mamá; without letting her object, he wrapped her in a hug, letting her lean against him as she mourned.

The doctors and the nurses swept in, but kept their voices low in deference to the grieving family. Spike listened as if from a distance as they called the time of death and began the official process of removing his father from the ranks of the living. Numb, Spike cradled his mother and watched as his Papá was removed from the monitors and the IV drips that had surrounded his final days of life. The oxygen tank was shut off and the tubes gently removed.

In less time than Spike would’ve believed possible, his father was removed from the room to be prepared for transport to the funeral home his parents had already selected. As the bed with its still, silent form passed through the door, the SRU constable realized. He needed to call his boss, needed to put in for a few days off.

Quietly, he guided his mother after the bed, shepherding her down the hallway until the nurses intercepted them and guided them to a waiting room, promising that the doctor would come in and help make arrangements once the paperwork was finalized. The constable got his mother down on a chair, then moved to the door, watching his Mamá as he pulled out his phone and called his boss.

Thankfully, the phone was picked up after only two rings. “Spike?” Concern and worry rang.

Absently, Spike hugged himself with his free arm. “He’s gone, Boss.” Shock and grief etched every word.

“Spike…” Grief felt and shared; somehow the burden lightened, if only by a hair.

“I need to…”

“Spike, I got it. You just stay with your mother. I’ll handle everything else.”

Throat tightening, Spike whispered, “Thanks, Sarge.”

* * * * *

Greg lowered the phone, feeling Spike’s anguish churn through the ‘team sense’. He had a feeling he’d be living with the ‘team sense’ on for a few days – Spike was just too emotionally distraught; even if Greg himself shut the ‘team sense’ down, Spike’s grief would force it open again. Part of the Sergeant objected; he shunted that part of himself to the side. His bomb tech needed the support and he could deal. Focusing on the phone, Parker dialed his commander first.

“Sergeant? Is there a problem?” Commander Holleran asked as soon as he picked up.

Sighing, Greg replied, “I just received a call from Constable Scarlatti, sir. His father just passed away.” Taking a deep breath, the Sergeant continued, “From what I understand, Spike is the executor for his father’s estate.”

“Greg, stop,” Holleran intervened. “I’ll handle the bereavement paperwork for Constable Scarlatti. Once a date has been set for the funeral, I’ll set the end date as the Friday after.”

“Thank you, sir,” Greg said. “If Team One could be taken off primary until Spike comes back?”

“Done. Anything else your team needs, Greg?”

Parker considered, but finally shook his head. “No, sir; we’ll handle the rest.”

Done with the most critical task, Greg swiftly spread the news to his teammates, but insisted that most of his constables stay home. The last thing Spike and his mother needed was to be overwhelmed.

* * * * *

Somehow, Spike wasn’t surprised when his boss and the team _nipotes_ showed up. Alanna hurried past him to his Mamá and ended up in her adoptive grandmother’s fierce embrace. The bomb tech heard his mother switch to her native Italian, but Alanna didn’t seem to mind.

“We can understand it,” Lance offered.

Spike hiked an eyebrow. “Just not speak it?”

“Something like that,” the teenager agreed, though his gaze was wistful. As though he _wanted_ to be able to speak Italian, but couldn’t. Spike might’ve pursued his niggling curiosity, but he was just too numb.

“Any news?” Sarge asked, reaching out to squeeze Spike’s shoulder.

Swallowing down a fresh lump of grief, Spike replied, “The doctor’s finished up the paperwork. Mamá and Papá picked out a funeral home before…”

Nodding understanding, the Boss inquired, “Have you called them yet?”

The bomb tech shook his head. “It’s too late to call them tonight.”

“Copy.” Gently, Sarge asked, “Do you want me to call them for you in the morning?”

It should be him; this wasn’t the Boss’s job, by any stretch of the imagination. But the thought of fighting through all the paperwork, legalities, and necessary details… Unable to speak, Spike simply nodded.

Just past his boss’s shoulder, Spike saw Lou appear, arrowing straight for the waiting room. “Spike.”

“Lou.” His voice was raspy soft, but then Lou was next to him. Before Spike knew it, he and his best friend were alone. Part of him want to cry, to cling to Lou and let all his anguish out, but he needed to be strong for his Mamá.

Somehow, Lou understood. Understood everything Spike couldn’t give voice to and more besides. His friend slung an arm around his shoulders and guided Spike towards their boss, Mamá, and the two teenagers.

Alanna remained in Mamá’s grasp, a safe outlet for the matriarch’s grief. Though Spike was finding it harder and harder to speak, his teammates made words quite unnecessary. The Boss took the lead with the doctor, easily cutting through the paperwork, leaving only the signatures for Spike while Lou and Lance stuck close to the bomb tech, silently offering what support they could.

In the endlessly long minutes before dawn, Spike realized the truth of a fact he’d known, but never truly _experienced_. He might have lost his father, but his _chosen_ family was still there. And they would _never_ let him fall.


	2. Planning the Memorial

“Three sisters?” Sophie asked, pen hovering as she glanced up at her husband.

“Yeah,” Ed confirmed, voice heavy as he dropped into the seat next to his wife. “They don’t get along with Spike, though.”

“Do you know their names?” Shelley asked from the opposite side of the table, her own notebook in hand.

Ed shifted his gaze up to Wordy, but his friend shrugged helplessly. “Lou might know,” the brunet offered. “Or Sarge.”

The phone rang, cutting off anything further. Ed reached out and scooped it up. “Lane here.”

“Ed?”

Relaxing, the constable allowed a brief grin. “Hey, Winnie.”

“I just heard; anything I can do?”

About to refuse, the team leader froze as an idea occurred. “Maybe. Can you get into Spike’s personnel file?”

“Sure thing,” Winnie agreed, the sound of typing coming through the line. “What do you need?”

“Names and contact info for his sisters.”

Wordy’s grin lit the kitchen and both wives nodded approvingly. Sophie slid her notepad over to her husband, offering her pen as well. Ed wrote rapidly, verifying each number as he wrote. When he was done, he thanked Winnie and promised to let her know if they needed anything else.

“All right,” Ed announced, sliding the notepad back to Sophie. “According to Winnie, Spike’s the youngest. Sisters are all married.”

Wordy whistled low. “No wonder his parents were always on him to get married and have kids.”

“And get out of the SRU,” Sophie added tartly, her disapproval obvious. “As if his sisters couldn’t have helped out.”

Shelley cleared her throat. “I’m not excusing them, Sophie, but Spike _is_ the only son.”

The implication hovered around the room – as the only _son_ , Spike had had to deal with his parents’ expectations his whole life. Despite being older, his sisters hadn’t had those expectations; what expectations _they’d_ had to deal with, they’d fulfilled. It was hardly fair, but then, life wasn’t fair. Not by a long shot.

* * * * *

“Hello, is this,” Sophie double-checked her pad, “Paolina Lourre?”

“Speaking,” the woman on the other end replied, her voice suspicious. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sophie Lane, Mrs. Lourre; my husband works with your brother.” Sophie paused long enough for that to sink in.

“I… see…” Paolina finally acknowledged. “What may I do for you?”

Sophie closed her eyes, wishing her news was better. “Mrs. Lourre, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your father passed away late last evening.”

Paolina was silent an instant, then her grieving wail rang out. “ _Papá!_ ” For a minute, Sophie couldn’t understand as the woman on the other end dissolved into what sounded like Italian. “Where is my brother?” Paolina demanded after a minute of Italian wails and anguish, anger stirring. “Does he not have enough _courage_ to tell us Papá is gone? Or is he hiding behind his _job_ as he _always_ does?”

The dark-haired woman stiffened. “Your brother is still at the hospital with your mother,” she replied, holding back a scathing insult. “We offered to contact the rest of his family on his behalf.”

Another flood of Italian burst from Spike’s sister and Sophie suspected it was a good thing she couldn’t understand what was being said.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sophie broke in once more. “Mrs. Lourre, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I need to contact your sisters.”

“And you expect _me_ to give you their numbers.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Lourre; I already have them,” Sophie reassured the grieving woman. “I’ll give you my number; that way, your brother can keep your mother company while we plan the memorial.”

“That is my brother’s job,” Paolina hissed. “ _He_ is the executor of Papá’s estate, not _I_!”

“Your brother is right where he needs to be right now,” Sophie countered firmly, refusing to let the other woman’s anger stir hers. “We are helping him, helping _you_.”

Paolina sniffed dismissively, but took Sophie’s phone number nonetheless. As Sophie Lane hung up the phone, she shook her head. To expect Spike to do all the work just because he was the only son. She didn’t understand it. Or respect it.

* * * * *

Spike’s other two sisters, Beatrice and Giulia, were more polite than Paolina had been, but both reacted much as Paolina had. As if they expected _Spike_ to do all the work and were _highly_ offended that Spike’s teammates were stepping in to shoulder some of the burden. Sophie promised to consult them on the funeral service and hung up as quickly as she could, fuming.

* * * * *

Shelley just shook her head when Sophie told her about Spike’s sisters. Frankly, she had a feeling there were far more issues than just Spike being the ‘eldest son’, but none of that changed the situation. “Did they have any initial suggestions for the funeral?”

“Not that I could tell. We may need to talk to Spike, see if his parents have anything pre-planned.”

“Kevin and Ed are going over this afternoon,” Shelley offered. “We can put together a list of questions. If Spike can’t answer them, then maybe his mother can.”

* * * * *

As it turned out, the funeral itself had already been planned and arranged with the Scarlattis’ parish months in advance. Greg dealt with contacting the priest and setting the wheels in motion, but that left the memorial at the funeral home. While the basics had been arranged, no music or memorial displays had been planned out. Nor had the funeral speeches been planned, though the women were aware they’d be expected.

Ed returned home with all the material Sophie had requested. Plenty of photos as well as a list from Spike’s mother as to which songs she and her husband had favored. Along with another sheet of paper from Spike answering the women’s questions. Aside from a token call to each of Spike’s sisters asking for their input, Shelley and Sophie planned everything out themselves in Spike’s stead.

Even better, Lance and Alanna assisted with copying several of the provided photos and even treated all the original photos with preservation spells, the better to keep them fresh for years to come. And if there were a few…magical…touches to the memorial displays? Well, it was nobody else’s business.


	3. Laying a Patriarch to Rest

Michelangelo Scarlatti tugged at the rented tuxedo his Mamá had insisted on and tried not to look too envious of his teammates’ dress blues. His demeanor lightened when he caught sight of Lance and Clark – the two teenagers looked even more uncomfortable in their own rented tuxes. He’d overheard his boss refusing to let either of his _nipotes_ attend in their wizarding formal wear, but hadn’t quite realized that meant the teenagers would have to get _techie_ formal wear.

Alanna joined his Mamá, regal and solemn in her raven dress with dark violet trim. Silently, she offered her arm to Spike’s mother, crooking it just enough to offer the grieving elder woman support. “Thank you, my dear,” Mamá murmured, accepting the assistance.

Wordy and Shelley’s girls joined the procession, wide-eyed, but quiet; Spike hung back, uncertain, until his boss gently pushed him forward. “Thanks, Boss.”

Sarge’s gaze warmed. “Any time, Constable Scarlatti.”

* * * * *

Inside, Spike took over escorting his mother, guiding her to a place of honor in the front row. The first two rows were reserved for the Scarlatti family, with his coworkers and their families relegated to the following rows, but none of them seemed to mind. With his mother settled, Spike took the time to look around the funeral home, eyes widening at the memorial posters on display. Photos from all throughout his father’s life, many of them complete with captions outlining the patriarch’s achievements.

One photo in particular caught his eye and he moved towards it, sucking in a gasp. Himself, his father, and a rather battered Wordy. Below, the story of his father helping him rescue his teammate. Brief, hardly more than a paragraph and certainly not enough to communicate the whole tale, but… He _knew_ there hadn’t been any pictures taken that night, so how?

“Pensieve.”

Spike glanced slightly up at Lance – kid was going to be competing with Ed and Wordy one of these days. “Huh?”

Lance twitched a smile and kept his voice low. “Got a Pensieve memory of that night and took it to Gringotts. Silnok pointed me to a guy who’s trying to come up with a new Pensieve that can be used in court. It’s still a prototype, but good enough that I could take a picture.”

“So that’s a magical photo?” Spike whispered.

“No,” Lance replied, a touch of regret ringing. “But it can be if you want.”

Spike surveyed the picture again, honestly tempted. Then he shook his head. “No. But thanks, kiddo.”

The sound of Italian brought Spike around; he flinched inwardly at the sight of his sisters and their husbands. Their children smiled bravely at him, but his sisters were…displeased. Mourning, yes, but also angry at him for not doing _more_. Angry that he was standing closer to his teammates and leaving their mother to Alanna. A faint bitterness stirred. Mamá _preferred_ Alanna to him – ironically, for all that Spike was a _cop_ with a more than passing familiarity with death, Alanna knew more about the grief of losing family. Of losing your entire _world_. Lance understood, too, but it was no secret that Alanna was the favored ‘grandchild’. Fine; Alanna could help his Mamá and Lance could help _him_.

* * * * *

Mamá wept quietly into Spike’s shoulder as the final strains of a haunting dirge faded away. The grieving son had no idea where Shelley and Sophie had _found_ that song, but it had been… As close to perfect as a funeral dirge could get. He wasn’t sure what he’d said when he’d gotten up to speak about his father; his eyes had been fixed on his mother and his only goal had been getting her to smile. She had – a tiny, sorrowful smile, but still a smile.

His sisters had spoken before him, going on and on about how Papá and Mamá had traveled from their native Italy, seeking a better life for themselves in Canada. About how Papá had worked to learn English and sacrificed to put his children through school, determined for his offspring to rise higher than he ever could. All achievements to be proud of, but really only giving superficial glimpses of the _man_ his Papá had been.

He thought maybe his speech had been more about _Papá_ and what his father had been _like_. The crinkle to his smile when he laughed, the way Papá would set aside his exhaustion after working all day to play with his young son, even the frantic, worried scold when he’d found Spike in the kitchen after the young future bomb tech injured himself in an explosives accident. The values Spike _himself_ had learned from his father, values that had led him to the Academy and eventually to the SRU. Even how Papá had set aside his issues with Spike’s job to help him save his teammate.

“Mamá.” Paolina swept down, reaching for their mother. Gently, Spike detached his mother and turned her towards his sister. Mother and daughter fell into each other’s arms, weeping. Sharing their grief. When Beatrice came from behind him, he perked up, hopeful, but she bypassed him in favor of their mother and sister. Giulia followed, subtly edging Spike out and away, forcing him to the edge, a bystander instead of a fellow mourner.

Hurt welled; _he’d_ lost _his_ father, _too_. Then hands closed on his shoulders and Alanna snuggled into his chest, blinking up at him with soulful violet eyes. He hugged her, lowering his head to hide the one tear that slipped past his defenses. Spike knew without turning that the rest of his team was there, too, close enough to offer support without overwhelming him. Inside, the numbing, paralyzing grief eased; he turned his head enough to see Sarge’s hazel glimmering with grief equal to his own. The ‘team sense’. It – _he_ – must’ve forced Sarge to endure that flood of emotions, but his boss had just… accepted it. Accepted all the shock, denial, grief, and anguish without even _once_ letting it show.

“Alanna.”

Alanna stiffened, but turned in Spike’s arms, gazing up at Mamá. “Yes, Mrs. Scarlatti?”

“Have you met my daughters, yet?”

Without moving more than her head, Alanna glanced at Spike’s sisters, offering a bland, “Nice to meet you,” before returning her attention to Mamá and leaning a bit further into Spike’s hold. The bomb tech swallowed a watery grin and laugh – the Boss’s _nipote_ was giving his sisters a taste of their own medicine.

For a moment, Mamá’s expression was disapproving and taken aback, but then her dark eyes widened in understanding. “Mikey,” she said, holding out her arm. “Take me to Dominic.”

A final farewell. Spike slipped around his niece and settled Mamá’s hand on his elbow, escorting her to the casket. As she whispered in their native Italian, the bomb tech studied his father, trying to memorize his features one last time. Grief welled up once more; he tried to stuff it down, to keep from slamming the ‘team sense’ any more than he already had. For an instant, he felt it ‘reverse’, a note of what felt like _chiding_ ghosting through him before it went back to normal.

Involuntarily, his head turned, meeting Sarge’s gaze in silent question. Sarge tipped his chin down, hazel turning expectant. Sucking in a breath, Spike turned back to his father. This time, when the grief surged, he didn’t try to stop it.

* * * * *

The funeral mass was every bit as difficult as Spike had known it would be. His sisters, still shunning him, surrounded their mother, cutting him off once more. In the family pews, he was alone; his team couldn’t violate church rules and custom. As if by magic, one of his nephews slid in next to him, ignoring the glare from his mother. Spike glanced over, arching a brow; he earned a rueful shrug and the jerk of a thumb back towards where the constable knew Lance and Alanna were sitting.

A faint smile broke through the grief – trust his team and their _nipotes_ to figure out a way around not being able to support him during the funeral. Turning his attention back to the priest, Spike reached out and rested a hand on his nephew’s arm. Inside, he felt the grief ease another hair.


	4. Inch By Inch, it’s a Cinch

Spike bit back a snarl as Lou was assigned to the truck instead of him. Why, why, _why_? _He_ was the team’s primary computer tech, not _Lou_. Did his team think he couldn’t do his job? Did Sarge think he was a weak link now that his father was gone?

“Spike, with Sam,” Ed ordered briskly, not even glancing at the bomb tech. “Sweep the alleys; make sure we don’t have any surprises here.”

“Copy,” Spike gritted out, stalking towards the blond sniper. They didn’t _trust_ him anymore.

Sam took the lead, ignoring the tension in his teammate’s shoulders. Spike forced himself to focus, narrowing his attention to his gun and checking every crevice, every corner for trouble. They’d already had that idiot patrol cop blow their easy warrant, they _couldn’t_ afford any more slipups.

“Clear.”

“Clear this side,” Spike confirmed. The irritation faded as he and Sam leapfrogged, moving in sync and constantly watching each other’s backs. The bomb tech edged forward, checking the next alley. “Clear.”

He started towards the next alley when Sam yelled and yanked him back behind cover a split second before a bullet pinged off the brick wall on the opposite side of their alley. Spike froze; if Sam hadn’t pulled him back… Visions of his Mamá wailing at the news, his sisters sobbing over his casket flew through his head – just like the bullet would’ve.

Shame engulfed him – he really _was_ off his game; they were _right_ to keep him out of the truck. Determination flared as another bullet ricocheted off the wall he and Sam were hiding behind. Glancing over at his partner, Spike suggested, “Grenade and cover fire?”

Sam considered, then nodded agreement, already working a grenade off his belt. “Leapfrog in,” he ordered quietly. “Take the lead.”

“Copy,” Spike acknowledged, determination flooding him. He _wouldn’t_ let Sam down again.

* * * * *

Later, when it was over and the subjects were safely cuffed, Spike retreated to the trucks, shaking at how _close_ it had been. How _close_ he’d been to leaving his Mamá all alone. How _close_ he’d come to letting his entire team down.

“Hey.”

Spike looked up, surprised. Why would _Sam_ want to talk to him? He’d let his partner down, forced him to carry most of the weight. The bomb tech tried to smile, hide his inner turmoil, but the smile felt fake. Forced. “Hey, Samtastic.”

The blond huffed a laugh. “You know, you called me that when you found me.”

Confused, Spike cocked his head to the side.

Rueful blue met his dark orbs. “When my old unit snatched me.”

Spike cringed, remembering, all too clearly, just how _bad_ Sam had been.

Gently, Sam punched his shoulder. “You remember what you said to Ryan? Right after he hit you with the _Cruciatus_?”

The bomb tech shook his head. He remembered trying to get Ryan and the Shade’s attention off of Sam, but what he’d _said_? Not so much.

Soft, Sam quoted, “ ‘From where I’m laying, Samtastic’s not the traitor here.’ ” The sniper tilted his head. “I thought you were crazy, sayin’ that to a wizard who’d just _tortured_ you.” Not to mention something that had been against _everything_ Sam _himself_ believed in that instant.

“He did worse to you,” Spike blurted.

“But _you_ kept me alive,” Sam countered, tone still soft. “You were even willing to _die_ for me.”

Spike ducked his head. “No,” he objected. “I just… I just wasn’t gonna let go.” The raw fear as Sam’s weight pulled them over the edge, the scream that had ripped free of its own volition. The giddy, almost drug-high feeling when they’d _survived_.

“Spike.” Tentative, the bomb tech looked up. “You carried me; let _me_ carry you.”

Realization dawned. “You asked Ed to partner us up, didn’t you, Samtastic?”

Sam nodded, not at all ashamed, embarrassed, or regretful. “I _know_ you can get through this, Spike. Let me help you.” _Like you helped me._

Awe bled through the shame, chagrin, and self-condemnation. “Might…might have to whack me a couple times, buddy.”

“I can do that,” Sam replied, blue brightening.

* * * * *

“Again,” Wordy ordered as Spike panted on the mat, glaring up at the backup team leader. “Come on, Spike; I know you can do better than that.”

Growling, the bomb tech thrust himself up, determination coursing through him, right along with outrage. Wordy _knew_ what he was going through, how _dare_ he act like Spike wasn’t doing his best. Fury rose, turning the edges of his vision red and the lithe constable lunged before Wordy could even get in the ready position.

He got two punches in before Wordy flipped him, landing him on the mat, but this time, Spike rolled before his teammate could pin him, raw emotion fueling his yell and near kamikaze attack. Gray widened, then Wordy’s stance shifted, the big constable taking Spike’s hits squarely, fighting back just enough to give the raven a target. The bomb tech kicked at Wordy, uncaring that his boots would leave his teammate limping for days; the brunet blocked the hit, taking the opening to send Spike sprawling on the ground again.

Still enraged, Spike lashed out, tripping Wordy up and putting them _both_ on the mat. The men rolled in opposite directions, scrambling back up; Spike went low, angling for body blows, but each was expertly diverted and blocked, all without ending the fight. Abruptly, Spike swept one foot, catching Wordy off guard and driving him to the mat. The bomb tech followed his teammate down, snarling; instinctively, he went for his friend’s neck, redirecting at the last second and accidently throwing himself off balance enough that he fell, landing on Wordy’s chest, elbow first.

Wordy’s yelp of pain was enough. Ed descended, yanking Spike off his best friend before pinning the bomb tech to the ground; the raven didn’t fight his team leader. Ed held Spike down for a few seconds, then released pressure, though the bomb tech could feel the tension in the other’s muscles and hear the anger in the harsh pants from above him.

“Ed, stop, it was an accident,” Wordy intervened before the angry man could speak. “We were sparring and Spike landed on me wrong.”

From his face down, pinned position, Spike felt his eyes widen. He’d gone _nuts_ on Wordy and Wordy was _defending_ him?

“Looked like more than that, Word.”

“Ed, it’s _fine_. Seriously, lay off and let him up.”

Ed obeyed, but icy blue eyes voiced his disbelief and condemnation of Spike’s ‘sparring’ tactics. Wordy pointedly pulled the bomb tech back to his feet and gestured him back to the opening position, ignoring the team leader with long practiced disdain.

“All right, Spike, let’s try that again.”

Ashamed, Spike looked down. “Maybe…maybe another time, Wordy.”

“Spike, if I have to rev you up, I will.”

Startled, the bomb tech’s eyes rose, jaw working soundlessly. Wordy _wanted_ to spar with him again?

Wordy smirked. “You hit like a _girl_ , Scarlatti. So much for the geek with combat skills.”

Indignation rose, but it was familiar. Not the aching anguish, fueling by grief and regret. “I’ll show _you_ a geek with combat skills, Wordsworth.”

And if it took another five rounds before Spike finally got around to mastering that new takedown Wordy had been _trying_ to teach him in the first place? Well, they were just keeping their hand-to-hand skills up to par.

* * * * *

“Feel better?”

Spike glanced up at Wordy, still embarrassed about hurting his teammate, but there was no anger in the brunet’s gaze, only honest concern. “I… Um…yeah, actually.” Embarrassed all over again, the bomb tech lowered his eyes. He hadn’t even _realized_ how much he needed a release until Wordy presented himself as a target and _forced_ Spike into fighting. And how had he thanked Wordy? By nearly beating his own friend to a pulp.

“I had it under control.”

Startled, Spike’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Spike, I knew what I was doing. Better me than Sam.”

“Huh?”

Wordy huffed, half in resignation, half in amusement. “Sam’s a soldier, Spike; I’m just a cop.”

He blinked, not sure what Wordy meant.

The brunet shook his head and rested a hand on Spike’s shoulder. “Never mind, Spike. You’ll figure it out. But I knew what I was doing and I knew what I was letting myself in for. I’m just glad you didn’t get that kick in.”

Spike cringed.

“And if you want to talk instead…”

“I know where to find you,” Spike finished. He knew and Wordy knew that he was unlikely to take the brunet up on the offer, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

* * * * *

Spike allowed a fierce grin as he slammed their last warrant target to the ground. Kneeling on the swearing drug dealer’s back, the constable cuffed his target, ignoring the breathless insults with the ease of a veteran cop. “Subject secure, Boss,” he reported, hauling the man up off the ground.

“Good work, Spike. Meet up with Jules and Sam; they’ve got our other primary subject.”

“Copy.”

As Spike hauled his catch towards where he knew his teammates were, the man sneered, “Obedient little pig.” When the bomb tech stiffened, the dealer added several oinking noises.

Fury rolled under his skin, then the prankster in him sat up. A smirk spread across Spike’s face and he pushed the dealer out the door, grinning openly at Jules and Sam. “Careful guys,” he called. “This guy’s angling for an insanity defense.”

Jules arched a brow, but Sam’s return grin was pure evil. “Is that so?” he asked, letting the moment hang.

“Yep,” Spike confirmed cheerfully. “Thinks he’s a pig.”

His teammates bit back laughter as Spike’s catch sputtered. Then the three officers hauled both drug dealers back to the trucks and the unis. When they arrived, Spike and Jules handed the dealers off and parted ways, each heading to their own truck.

Spike waited until he was out of sight, then sagged against the truck’s metal. Typical, everyday anti-cop insult and he’d almost lost it. The dealer hadn’t been angling for an insanity defense, he’d been angling for a brutality lawsuit. And Spike had almost handed it to him on a silver platter.

“Spike.”

Dully, the bomb tech turned his head, unsurprised to see the Boss.

“I heard.” Of _course_ he’d heard; what the Boss’s super-hearing couldn’t catch usually wasn’t _worth_ catching. And yet, there was no concern, only pride. Sarge was suddenly right next to him, one hand gripping the bomb tech’s shoulder. “You did good, Spike.”

Spike shook his head, but the Boss wasn’t having any of it.

“Spike, it doesn’t matter if they throw that insult a _thousand_ times. It’s _always_ going to hurt.”

“Sticks and stones.”

Sarge huffed, half amusement and half scorn. “We both know that’s not true, Spike. I don’t know about you, but I’d _rather_ have those sticks and stones to some of the things we hear on the job. Or some of the things we hear at home.”

Spike dropped his gaze. “Yeah,” he whispered.

And inside, the burden he’d been carrying eased just a tiny bit more.


	5. Remembering the Good Times

“Okay, guys, this Friday,” Sarge announced. “Team only, no kids, no wives.” He paused, pinning both Spike and Lou with _Looks_. “No girlfriends.”

“Where we going?” Ed drawled, leaning back.”

“It’s a bit of a jog,” the Boss admitted, “But I’ve heard some good things about a place called Pearly’s.”

The constables traded glances and shrugs, debating the outing and proposed location. Lou scowled, preferring their usual spot, but when Ed gave him a ‘give-it-a-try’ glare and Spike nudged him, the less-lethal specialist gave in with a smirk and a ‘sure-whatever’ shrug. Their boss observed, amused by the completely silent argument and equally silent surrender.

“Sounds good, Boss,” Ed remarked, pointedly ignoring the slight pout from Lou.

* * * * *

The crowded restaurant was full of people and noise, but when Sarge gave his name at the front desk, the hostess smiled and guided Team One to a smaller, quieter room. “Reservations, Greg?” Ed pressed, his tone light, but eyes intent.

“Grant and Brady recommended it if we wanted a table,” the Boss explained.

“This place is _that_ popular?” Lou asked.

The Sergeant chuckled, gesturing back at the crowded main part of the restaurant and the horde outside the door, waiting for their beepers to go off. Spike elbowed Lou, eyes alight with laughter, then snatched up one of the menus. Their teammates followed suit.

* * * * *

The food, Spike had to admit, was very good. Not too heavy on the spices, but still enough zip to know they were there. Nor had the restaurant dumped pepper on everything in sight, only seasoning what _needed_ to be seasoned. The fluffy buns with just a hint of honey on top were worth the price of admission all by themselves – the bomb tech fully planned on absconding with any that were left over.

Then Wordy swiped the last one, earning a pleading look from Spike and a mock whine from Lou. “Get your own,” the brunet countered, slicing the bun open to butter it. “Oh wait, you did.”

“About three each,” Jules concurred without even looking up from her pasta.

Sarge coughed to hide his laugh, then waved down their waitress to ask for another basket. When she was gone, he informed his bomb techs, “Last one, so make it count.”

“Will do,” Lou agreed.

“Don’t steal ‘em all,” Sam called, snatching a tomato from Jules’ neglected salad and dodging her fork defense.

“Sam, quit stealing from Jules,” Wordy interceded. “Jules, stop leaving your salad wide open.”

Both constables glared at Wordy in mock affront. “Yes, Dad,” Sam quipped.

Spike choked on a laugh, ducking down to avoid the ensuing banter war between the three even as Ed joined the fray on Wordy’s side. Another basket of buns appeared near his elbow and dark eyes lit.

“Two, Spike.”

“Aww, but Boss,” Spike whined.

“You can come back another time,” Sarge chided, though he smiled to take the sting out of his words. For a minute, the pair watched the banter, rapidly reaching new heights and threatening to trigger a prank war. Lou jumped in, his voice a deliberate drawl as he hit both sides with a snarky crack about parents and teenagers.

“Oh, he did _not_ just go there,” Spike whispered, earning a chuckle from his boss.

“I think he did, Constable Scarlatti.” Sarge arched a brow. “Going to back him up?”

Spike shook his head. “Nope; he wants a prank war with the whole team, he’s on his own. Wordy and Sam are _vicious_ when they team up.”

Another chuckle. “The two of you can be just as bad,” Sarge pointed out. When Spike merely shrugged and returned to his meal, the stocky negotiator leaned closer. “How you doing, Spike?”

Grief flashed. “Still hurts, Boss.”

Sarge let his knife fall to reach out and grip Spike’s shoulder. “I hear you, Spike. It might hurt less, but it always hurts.”

The bomb tech let his chin bob. “I’m glad though.”

The Boss tilted his head, question clear.

“He…he was proud of me at the end,” Spike whispered. “He wasn’t trying to get me to quit the SRU anymore.” After a moment, he added, “After that thing with Wordy, he started asking me about my day.”

“About the job?”

“Yeah, Boss.” Fidgeting with his fork, Spike admitted, “After McKean, he and Mamá knew about magic, so I started telling him stories. I mean, he wasn’t talking to me anyway…”

“So what did you have to lose?” the Boss finished. “That’s good thinking, Spike. Sounds like you wore him down.”

“Maybe,” Spike conceded. “He still didn’t talk to me until…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but the Boss nodded understanding. Hesitating, Spike bit his lip until his boss arched an inquiring brow. “What…what about your father, Boss?”

“Was he proud of me?” Sarge asked, his tone guarded.

“Y-Yeah.”

For several minutes, silence hung and Spike regretted his question as hazel darkened in old pain and sorrow. Finally, the Boss replied, “I don’t know if he was, Spike. The last time I saw him, he was so far down a bottle he didn’t even realize the cop paying his tab and dragging him out of the bar was his son.” Hazel darkened even further. “I swore that night I’d never end up like him.”

“And you didn’t,” Spike insisted.

“Not because of anything _I_ did, Spike.”

Lou nudged their boss from the opposite side. “So you _didn’t_ quit cold-turkey, end up in rehab, and transfer to the SRU?” he teased.

“Because I’m pretty sure you did all of that,” Spike agreed instantly.

To the bomb techs’ considerable relief, the Boss’s eyes lightened. “Well, I didn’t do it _alone_.”

“None of us do, Boss,” Lou pointed out, solemn. Leaning forward from his new spot, the less-lethal specialist said, “So? Give. What story finally cracked him?”

Spike perked up. “I think it might’ve been our _Lord of the Rings_ poster,” he replied. “He asked if he could see it the day after we found Wordy.”

“Or maybe it was you asking him for help,” Wordy put in over his shoulder before diving right back into his banter war with Sam, Jules, and Ed.

Spike choked on a laugh. “Maybe,” he whispered. Glancing up at his best friend, he asked, “Any stories from _your_ childhood?”

Catching the reference to the funeral, Lou laughed. “Only if you tell me the end of that kitchen explosive story.”

The bomb tech considered. “Deal if you tell me why you joined SRU.”

“Ditto, Scarlatti.”

Their boss chuckled at both of them as they clinked glasses to seal the bargain.

Then Spike yelped as the Boss swatted him away from the bun basket, scooping up two of his own before passing it to Wordy.

“Sarge! No fair!” Spike whined, Lou offering an identical expression of dismay.

Sarge just smirked at them and their teammates laughed, right before the waitress appeared with the team’s to-go boxes.

And two more boxes full of honeyed buns for the bomb techs.

_~Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter 2020, everyone! This is probably the oddest Easter I've ever remembered experiencing. No church (aside from online) and I'm tucked away in my apartment just like I've been for the past couple weeks.
> 
> But as Easter dawns, so too will the day when everyday life begins once more.
> 
> Some of us have been left without jobs (or businesses for those many who have gone under in the midst of this pandemic) and wondering how to pay the bills, but I have faith that He is Good. He will not leave us in dire straits and just as He cares for the beasts of the field and the birds of the air, so, too, will He also care for us.
> 
> Some others of us have essential jobs, so we're not worried about money, but perhaps we're worried about the virus (or dealing with increasing anxiety from those we work with). Jesus walks with us through each day and He will not leave us alone to flounder; even if shoppers start fighting with employees and each other, He is still there.
> 
> So on this Easter, please remember our God is not like other gods throughout history. He came down among us and walked on the Earth as a man. He is the only God who can _ever_ understand our deepest fears and most difficult troubles - because He experienced them Himself. He understands our suffering: He has been hungry and thirsty and He even knows what it is like to be without a job. He even died on the cross for us and rose again from the dead - all for _our_ sake. No matter how deep the darkness gets, our God knows what it is like and He is with us.
> 
> He is Risen! He is Risen, indeed.


End file.
